


Shades of Grey

by athena_crikey



Series: Reichenbach [6]
Category: Magic Kaito
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Gen, Task Force dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Things are seriously amiss in the Tokyo Metro. For the first time in his life, Nakamori dreads Kid's next notice.





	1. Prologue

"Well, Inspector," says Superintendant Kamioka Masaru, the new head of Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department Section Two. He's a small man with a pot belly that his dull suit does little to disguise, even behind his desk. His weak eyes stare at Nakamori from behind thick glasses while a scraggly moustache, obviously grown in a failed attempt at giving a dull face some character, twitches faintly. "Well, Inspector. I must say, you seem to have one of the most interesting portfolios in this section. It's certainly the longest running."

Nakamori, standing stiff in front of the desk with his arms clasped behind his back, says simply, "Yes, sir." Kamioka has a stack of files nearly a foot high on the desk beside him, plain evidence of his knowledge in this area. Or rather, of a heavy-handed attempt to convey it. Men who truly know a portfolio demonstrate it with questions and comments, not stage-props.

Kamioka has the same large south-facing office the former head of Section Two, Higashiyama, held until his quiet but hasty dismissal two months ago. However, it couldn't have changed more. The glass-and-metal desk and matching modern furniture are gone, replaced by old oak and leather upholstery. The cold white blinds have been replaced by a warmer beige, and the bare linoleum floor covered by a dark blue carpet with subtle hints of a pattern around the borders. Higashiyama, who had a surfeit of personality, used his office to direct all attention to it and allow him greater control over his subordinates. Kamioka, who has none, is clearly using the space to create the illusion of it.

Had Kamioka been in another position, Nakamori would have been fatalistic. He's seen enough poor managers and witless administrators in his twenty years on the Force to be able to take another with equanimity. But the head of the second largest division in the Tokyo Metro is no place for a colourless puppet, and it's inconceivable that one could have made it that far unless someone damn high up the food chain was pulling his strings.

That someone's leaning on Section Two is reason for concern, but Nakamori doesn't start to really worry until the Superintendant reaches out and uncovers a piece of paper from a shorter pile to his right and hands it to the inspector.

"Since your squad is so busy these days, you are being assigned a new officer. Lieutenant Iwada. Quite a strong officer, several impressive successes. I see – that is, he will be senior to your present lieutenant. Ookawa?"

"Oogawa, sir," says Nakamori, staring down at the paper in his hand with Iwada's particulars on it. He doesn't miss the Superintendant's slip, though, and wonders who drew up the report on this man. Wonders more strongly still who suggested he be moved to Nakamori's squad. "Thank you, sir. We can always do with more men," he adds, politely.

Kamioka looks mildly alarmed, and hurries to fend off future expectations. "Well, don't look for too many favours, Nakamori. This section isn't made of men, you know."

"No, sir."

"Good, good. Yes, I think he will be a great help. It's time Kaitou Kid was behind bars."

The superintendent, Nakamori realises, is one of those men who can't seem to end an interview. Resisting the urge to sigh, he merely agrees. Kamioka eventually draws the interview to a vague conclusion, and Nakamori escapes from the stuffy office. Although he suspects Kamioka won't follow in Higashiyama's traditionalist objections to heating in the winter and air conditioning in the summer, it's unlikely the man's managed to find the requisition forms to install any temperature control in the office after only a week on the job. It's one policy that he hopes the new superintendent will change, but pessimistically believes the man will probably only bother dealing with it in his own office. The rest of them will have to wait until the building's blanket approval comes into effect in July.

Loosening his collar against the heat, he goes back to his section to inform the men of their new lieutenant.

* * *

Lieutenant Iwada reports for duty on the following Monday, in his street uniform. It's a tiny clue to the mystery of his appointment. Most men wear their formal gear for the first week or so of a new position. Iwada's not interested in making a good impression; he doesn't believe Nakamori will have any influence in his career. But Nakamori doesn't need to look at his clothes to tell that.

The inspector can read his attitude in the very first look the bulldog-faced man gives him. Bored, unimpressed, and malignant. Iwada isn't here to join the Squad. He's here for some other purpose entirely, although Nakamori's not sure what that might be. It would be easy enough to break up the Squad, or replace enough of its members to effectively create a new one. There's no reason to plant a single troublemaker. It's a mystery he's not pleased to have been handed.

* * *

Yamamoto comes to see his boss three days into Iwada's appointment, during lunch-hour when most of the men are down in the canteen or eating out of the building. His open face is unusually constrained, voice terse.

"Can I talk to you, sir?"

Nakamori, eating the bento Aoko made for him at his desk as always, looks up with a sausage halfway to his mouth and nods. "Grab a chair."

Yamamoto declines, but closes the door behind him and steps over to the desk. The man was one of the first recruits to the New Squad, and Nakamori privately considers him the best of the new bunch. Quick, intelligent and even-tempered, he also gets along well with the rest of the men. Team-work isn't necessarily a skill most coppers cultivate, but the Squad by its nature works closely together at all times. Considering the Old Squad was going for 12 years, Nakamori long ago learned the value of men who don't rock the boat. He lays down his chopsticks and leans forward to rest his wrists on the desk, listening.

"Some of the men have a small concern," he says, homely face careful. "Mostly Washio and myself," he adds, and Nakamori's brows draw together as he waits to see whether this specification is important. "It seems… we're wondering whether there are any changes being made. Whether… things are moving in another direction."

Nakamori has enough experience to know if the man had wanted to speak plainer, he would have. But still, he's not sure what's being hinted at. "I don't know of any change," he says slowly, waiting. Very few men in the Force, so rigorous in enforcing discipline and a firm line of command, would dare to complain outright to a senior officer about either orders or another man senior to them. If Yamamoto's come to do so, he's seriously worried.

"I know with the new superintendent some shifts are to be expected. It looks like we're in line for a little new support, which could be a lot of help, of course," hedges the sergeant. And Nakamori picks up the cue. Iwada.

"I haven't been informed of any changes," repeats Nakamori more firmly now that he knows what they're talking about. "That doesn't mean none are in store for us; we'll have to take what comes. But," he adds, considering Iwada's bulldog stare and Kamioka's vague blundering with narrowed eyes, "I don't intend to allow any of that pose a threat to this Squad."

Yamamoto nods, flushing slightly at his superior's conviction. "Thank you, sir."

Nakamori waves him off, and the sergeant goes off to his lunch. It's only later that he nails the connection between Yamamoto and Washio; the two men both served in Section One. The section with the sharpest, most dangerous cops. And the one dealing with the most brutal and deadly felons.

* * *

It's two days later that he works out simultaneously why Iwada's been assigned to the Squad and why they've been given a figure-head as superintendant. The answer arrives in a private letter from the head of the Tokyo Metro, written in an old man's crabby hand.

_Tomorrow your squad's being awarded shoot-on-sight privileges with regards to Kaitou Kid. The formal order will come through in a few days. How you choose to handle that is your business, but half-measures have been deemed insufficient in this case. Whatever you do, I advise discretion._

_Arakawa_

Nakamori burns the letter at his desk, watching it curl into ashes and then crumble to dust in his ashtray.

He knows now that something is seriously wrong in the Tokyo Metro. He never thought he'd see the day he'd regret having more men, but Iwada isn't his man. He knows from the file and the man's behaviour that Lieutenant Iwada's driven, and an expert, and _dangerous._ And, as he outranks Oogawa, he's now in charge of a considerable amount of the Squad's affairs. And now the Squad is being given clearance – which means veiled urging – to bring Kid in using whatever means are necessary. Up to and including lethal force.

All this means that Kid has seriously pissed off someone pulling the strings of the Tokyo Metropolitan Department, and that someone has decided to bring all the power necessary to bear to swat Kid like a fly. That the potential scandal and the reaction of Kid's multitude of fans which would follow such a swatting are no deterrent means whoever it is is either confident his role in this will go unnoticed, or is confident he can cover it up. It's not Arakawa, and that means this has gotten political so fast Nakamori feels like he's got whiplash.

Nakamori will make it clear to Iwada he won't permit bloodshed, won't allow shots to be fired unless Kid fires first – which he never will – but he can see in the man's eyes he isn't there to follow Nakamori's orders; he heels to a different master.

Nakamori knows he's only been kept in place this long because it would raise eyebrows to remove him, and quite possibly because he could make a convenient scapegoat. Bumbling 20 year veteran causes death of moonlit thief.

Because that is what they want. Kaitou Kid dead. And Nakamori can't do a damn thing about it.

For the first time in his life, he dreads Kid's next notice.


	2. Chapter 1

The note comes one afternoon at the tail of the rainy season, along with the real smothering summer heat. The office is on edge, and in the oppressive humidity tempers are running high. Iwada's raising backs left and right with his procedural changes, breaking up old teammates and changing shifts and report formats with what looks on the surface simply like extreme zeal. No one believes it. Nakamori, who has 20 years' experience studying misdirection, can recognize an attempt at keeping the right hand from knowing what the left is doing when he sees it.

It's while they are trying to adjust to this change in direction, like men trying to keep their balance on a tilting surface, that the notice arrives.

_I will recover what General Varus lost when the cow bellows._

_Kaitou Kid_

Nakamori doesn't have to say anything; the men file into his office from force of habit and routine, each with paper and a pen. Iwada arrives last, shoulders sharp, eyes watchful, and hands empty.

"As you know," Nakamori begins from behind his desk, Kid's note sitting on top of a pile of paperwork and fluttering in the breeze of the fan – so far still no AC authorized until July, "Kid's sent out his notice. We have time and target in the notice. Whatever this Varus lost – Oogawa, take who you need and figure that out – when the cow bellows – Sawara, that's you. He doesn't specify date, so we'll assume it's in the next 24 hours. Yamamoto, you're interdepartmental liaison, notify them we have a heist and tell them we may need back-up depending on target and location. Get going." Nakamori waves a dismissive hand.

"And me, Inspector?" asks Iwada curtly, before anyone has the chance to leave the room, thick jaw set in stony defiance. Nakamori's irritation flashes, quick and strong as a summer rain, before he quashes it. Apparently the man's not above trying to score off his boss in front of his subordinates.

"You can coordinate the reports, Lieutenant. Keep me apprised."

"Yes, sir."

Nakamori glares at the rest of the men, gathered awkwardly around Iwada and the door. "What are you waiting for? Move!"

They scatter, Iwada more slowly than the rest. Nakamori sits heavily, sighs.

After a moment, he picks up the note. Sitting in his baking office with the fan's warm breeze in his hair, Nakamori reads the paper again and hopes it's not the thief's death warrant he's holding in his hands.

* * *

Compared to some of Kid's notes, it's not difficult to decipher. Nakamori knows the time without having to send Sawara to look into it, although checking does no harm. Oogawa comes in with the target not long after. Just him and Sawara. Iwada's on the phone in the outer office; Nakamori is sure no one wanted to disturb him to point out the impromptu meeting.

"Varus was a Roman general about 2000 years ago. He was famous for his disastrous loss of three army regiments in a battle in what's now Germany."

"We're looking for an Italian piece?"

Oogawa shakes his head. "Varus was _also_ famous for the loss of the symbols of the regiments, three eagles – not actual eagles; they were made of metal and carried as standards."

"We're looking for an _eagle_?"

"Possibly, sir," says Oogawa, grinning slightly. "But more likely, something like this." He pulls a photograph out of a manila folder and pushes it across Nakamori's desk. A photo of a yellow stone on a piece of dark velvet. "This is the Eagle's Eye, part of a temporary exhibit at the National Museum in Ueno Park. It's a yellow diamond, very rare. Worth billions of yen, of course."

Nakamori nods grimly. "That'll be it, alright. Sawara, the time?"

"Most likely hour of the cow, sir. The old hours added up to two modern ones, so any time between one and three am. He doesn't give a date, so it will be tonight." That's one fact they know for certain from experience.

"Great. We'll assume he means one, but don't relax if he doesn't show up right away. Sawara, tell Yamamoto to warn the museum's guards – we'll be taking over security as of midnight. Tell him we'll need enough men to set up a perimeter around the building, plus …" He considers the layout of the museum, and the surrounding area, "ten extra. We'll need them by eleven." He looks at Sawara, dismissing the man with his eyes. Sawara nods and hurries out.

Oogawa, left behind, raises an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"You are aware of our new orders, Lieutenant?"

Oogawa's face hardens almost imperceptibly. "Yes, sir."

"You are also aware that Lieutenant Iwada would see no reason not to carry them out." A nice way of saying, _He's a bloodthirsty lap dog_.

"I'm aware, sir." Oogawa's expression doesn't change.

"With his inexperience in Squad matters, you'll understand why I don't want the lieutenant giving orders to the auxiliary men quite yet."

"Yes, sir. I'll take care of it. Don't worry, sir, he won't beat us."

"Kid, you mean," says Nakamori, eyes sharp.

"That's exactly who I meant," replies Oogawa, voice and eyes steady.

Nakamori nods, lets a hint of approbation into his glance. "Very well. See that he doesn't."

* * *

They surround the museum, of course. Mostly they use the borrowed perimeter guards, with Squad members scattered here and there at critical locations. Inside the museum itself it's mostly the Squad who stand guard around the room holding the Eagle's Eye. For tonight's heist, they've taken away the glass display case and put a metal box in its place, weighing about a hundred kilos. No way Kid can lift it, much less take it with him.

Nakamori's worried. Not about the jewel. The police security's at least as good as usual, and the museum's got a damn good system. Everyone's briefed and knows their orders and responsibilities. It's not that aspect of his work that he's worried about. He frowns, moustache bristling. The police barricade around the building means Kid will have no choice but to come in by glider. And that will make a perfect target.

And that is the crux of it all. He's not even sure these days whether he really wants to catch the thief. Whether rather than the capture, it's the challenge of the hunt that he craves. But whether or not he wants to trap Kid, he knows for damn sure that he doesn't want the boy harmed. Doesn't want him shot down at his feet like a game bird.

Does not, of all things, want him killed.

He stands in the front lobby at midnight, his men gathered around him in a semi-circle. Lieutenant Iwada is conspicuously absent, probably off cleaning his gun. In the hush the huge dark space feels like a tomb. But despite the quiet it's not empty. Oogawa is watching him now, the tall lieutenant staring him straight in the eye. Behind him, the rest of the Squad are unusually quiet, and he can feel the weight of their stares on his shoulders.

"Alright," he says at last. "We've set up a perimeter. It's our job to see that Kid is taken into custody. _Alive_." Even with them, it's the closest he can come to directly countermanding his orders. Fortunately, with them, it's the closest he needs to come.

His lieutenant nods crisply. "Understood, sir."

Nakamori raises his head to scan the rest of the men. They straighten under his eyes, and he can see their agreement written plainly across their faces. The faces of men who have followed him for months, and years. The faces of men who have, in some cases, had their lives saved by the thief. The faces of men who owe the lives of their children to the Kid.

"Leave it to us, sir," growls Sawara, who until two months ago had never shown an expression other than a smile. Who still has a wife, and now a son, thanks to the thief.

"Then get moving. And, if you somehow forget to keep our new colleague in the loop… well, no one can be blamed for a moment of carelessness." Nakamori smiles, but it's all teeth and sharpness. A predator's grin, flashing in the dark night.

The men chorus agreement, and move to take their places.

* * *

Nakamori, as always, is stationed beside the jewel. His first instinct was to move it – to the cellar vault, or some secret location – but that's never been successful in the past and this room has prime security: motion-trigged grilles over the doorways and a laser-triggered cage over the tall pedestal beneath the jewel. Nakamori stands beside the metal-covered case with Iwada on the other side, the two of them like a pair of ornamental lions.

He strongly considered assigning Iwada an outdoors position where there would be more space for Kid to out-manoeuvre him, but he'd rather have the glowering man where he can keep an eye on him than outside taking pot shots at the thief.

Nakamori can hardly believe he's planning his distribution patterns to facilitate sabotage. But then, before this month he would never have believed the Tokyo Metro would give approval to shoot on sight a man who is famous for having never in twenty years seriously harmed anyone. He closes his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose. He's had a nearly perpetual headache since this whole mess started.

The museum is at least gratefully cool, the whole building well air-conditioned to preserve the more delicate pieces of art. Nakamori drops his hand to raise the collar of his jacket, allowing the cool air closer to his skin. After ten hours in his sweltering office it's the next-best thing to the ice-bath he can't have. Iwada has his own jacket open – to grant access not to the cool air but to something else entirely.

Nakamori's just glancing at his watch – 12:59 – when the radio at his waist crackles to life.

"Sir, we've spotted what looks like Kid's glider coming in low from the north." It's Sawara, and he sounds puzzled. Nakamori knows immediately why – there are no tall buildings for several kilometres to the north, and tonight the wind's not high enough for the glider to drift that far. It occurs to Nakamori that somewhere along the line he's become a specialist in the aerodynamic properties of gliders. Just another of the skills a career in the Tokyo Metro will teach you.

"Copy that," replies Nakamori. "Move in and prepare –"

"You will open fire as soon as the glider is in range –" cuts in Iwada, snapping harshly into his own radio, thick neck straining against his collar. "You have shoot-on-sight authorization, sergeant. You will bring down that glider."

There's a pause, and then a prolonged crackle of static from the other end through which Sawara's garbled voice emerges every few seconds. "Sorry, sir – may be – outside interference – heavy – can't…" The transmission cuts out. Nakamori tries to restrain himself from rolling his eyes sky-ward.

"Kid has used transmission jammers in the past to confuse large operations," he says instead, covering for Sawara, who clearly needs to cut back on the old war films. It's technically true that Kid's used jammers, but it was only once and that was in the old era – the old Kid.

Iwada's expression says very plainly that he doesn't believe the excuse any more than Nakamori.

There aren't any windows in this room, but Nakamori still thinks he can faintly hear whistles blowing and men shouting – in other words, the typical sounds of a Kid heist. He's just about to radio Oogawa, standing guard on the roof, when a siren rips through the air like a chopper blade, so loud that Nakamori claps his hands to his ears. The heavy metal grills slam down over both entrances into the room, floor trembling at the impact, and then a split second later the siren dies. So do the lights.

"What the _hell_ ," growls Nakamori, reaching with one hand for his flashlight and with the other for the heavy box beside him, feels a surge of thankfulness as his fingers brush against its cold side. For Kid to have snuck in and lifted it in his second of distraction would have been impossible, but around Kid the impossible seems to happen like clockwork.

He finds his flashlight and clicks it on at almost the same instant as Iwada, and they find themselves staring at each other over the cast-iron box. In the harsh light the usual shadows are washed away while others replace them, giving extra prominence to the ridge of the eyebrows and cheekbones. Although Iwada has a square bulldog face, Nakamori can see him now as he would be if he dropped two dozen kilos – weedy and glaring. Then he notices the metallic gleam in Iwada's hand and such light-hearted thoughts are crushed by the weight of his sudden anger. He grinds his teeth together and forces his thoughts back to the job.

Nakamori turns, shining the light as he goes, and the dark corners reveal themselves to be empty. Iwada steps over to the hallways, gun in hand, and checks the long black corridors. "They're empty. Sir." Without the Squad to prompt his behaviour with their mere presence, he adds the honorific belatedly. Nakamori ignores the slight.

"Why haven't the lights come back on? This place has its own power supply."

"Maybe Kid cut that, too."

The radio beeps, and he picks it up without looking, now scanning the ceiling for fissures. "Nakamori."

"Sir, what's happening?" It's Yamamoto, liaising with the borrowed officers outside in the gravel courtyard.

"The grilles're down and the power's out – what the hell's going on?"

"We got the glider, sir. It was empty, just a prop with a low-powered fan. That's how it got this far coming from the north. Kid must've gotten in on the ground somehow. The external power was cut by a timed device. We've sent someone to check on the museum's generator."

"Have them report the findings to me. And get some men with lights in here."

"Yes, sir."

Iwada, still at the grille, wraps strong fingers around a metal crossbar and pulls upwards. The grille shifts, but doesn't lift away from the ground; Nakamori knows from the security briefing that they lock into place electronically once dropped. Kid won't be getting his jewel if the power doesn't come back on, but they won't be getting out, either.

From the corridor comes the sound of jogging footsteps, and the beam of a flashlight appears around a corner. Nakamori steps over to stand beside the new lieutenant, and they stand ready – Iwada with a gun in his hand, Nakamori with a radio.

The man approaching turns out to be Oogawa, sweating lightly from his jog across the hot roof and through the museum. "Sparrow, sir," he says, giving the recognition code with his eyes on Iwada's gun. And then, as the lieutenant lowers it with a flat expression, "Division two's on its way, sir, and Yamamoto's got someone checking the back-up generator. Is everything alright here?"

Nakamori nods. "Fine; no activity. We'll have to wait for the power to come back on to get the grilles back up. Has anyone spotted anything suspicious?"

"No, sir. The patrols haven't found anything. Everyone's been keeping in contact with their assigned partners. Whatever he's up to, it's none of the usual routines."

"Right, well –"

The radio beeps again. Nakamori answers it, glancing at Oogawa. "Nakamori."

"Yamamoto, sir. They've found the problem with the generator – someone switched the automatic activation off. They're turning it back on now, should be back on –"

There's an echoing click, the sound of dozens of lights turning on all at once, and the room and hallway light up again.

" – any time," finishes Yamamoto, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"Good. You have the building maintenance staff there with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Send 'em up; the grilles're locked down. Don't let anyone split off or join the group."

"Right – I'll send them up now, sir." The radio cuts off again with a beep.

"I'll go back to the roof then, sir," says Oogawa, with a last glance around. Nakamori nods, and the lanky lieutenant turns to jog back down the hall. Iwada begins to pace, his large feet falling heavily on the stone floor. Nakamori sighs and crosses his arms, tapping his finger on his elbow. The two minutes that have passed are nowhere near enough time for the room to have begun to heat up, but nevertheless it feels warmer. Probably his frustration on low boil, he thinks.

The maintenance crew arrives with a police escort led by Takarai, the escort giving the password and the maintenance crew undergoing a quick round of face-pulling for extra security. The grilles are raised after several minutes of re-booting the security system, and the men step in to test the rest of the system. The troop of officers, mostly unfamiliar faces drawn from Section Two, spread out in the area. Nakamori steps aside to let the maintenance crew lower and raise the cage, catching Takarai's eye. The younger officer follows him to a corner.

"What was the situation with the back-up generator?" he asks, eyes on Iwada as the man walks out to check the walls outside the room.

"Someone had turned off the automatic activation system."

"By remote?"

"No, by hand. Could have been just now, or earlier in the day. If the system's deactivated for more than twenty-four hours it sends a signal to the maintenance company, and none had been sent. There weren't any signs of a break-in either inside or on the locks."

"Kid doesn't leave traces," says Nakamori grimly.

"No, sir," agrees his subordinate. Across the room one of the uniforms hails him. "Sir, should we check to see the jewel is still intact, just in case?"

"Fine; raise the box." He's known crazier things to happen. The man, with the help of the crew and a couple of others, raises the heavy metal box and sets it carefully on the ground. The jewel, about the size of a small apricot, sits on a black velvet cushion. With no glass in the way, it sparkles magnificently in the bright lights. Nakamori's wonder for great jewels was dulled long ago by his line of work, but it hasn't dried up entirely yet and he can appreciate that it's certainly impressive.

Unfortunately that's all he has time to appreciate. There's a quiet puff and the room fills with smoke. Nakamori doesn't bother to go for the pedestal, instead spreads himself as wide as he can in the doorway with the quicker roof-access. He just barely feels someone brush past his fingertips, and turns to chase.

Kid emerges from the far end of the smoke cloud sprinting at full-pace. He's dressed as a cop, and Nakamori can't wait to find out where their set-up went wrong so he'll know who to shout at. For now he concentrates on running. Kid's outpacing him already, and he's only just to the first turn on the way to the roof. From behind him comes a fury of pounding footsteps.

Nakamori pulls his radio as he runs, slamming around a corner and skidding on the well-waxed floor. "Attention all officers: this is Inspector Nakamori. Kid's got the jewel and is heading through the Sword Gallery on the second floor heading north. Block all exits. Oogawa, secure the roof access."

He drops the radio into his pocket and concentrates on following the sprinting uniform ahead of him. And nearly runs right past when the thief makes the wrong turn for the roof, turning left rather than keeping on straight ahead to the staircase. He's chosen a dead end.

Behind him, Nakamori can hear the men catching up. Ahead, Kid heads down the corridor which ends in a gallery window to provide light for two well-padded benches sitting back-to-back in the middle of the hallway. Kid, running straight down the centre, vaults over the pair of them as if they were gymnastic horses, and lands gracefully on the other side with his feet together. He's now standing straight up against the wall with his back to the hurriedly assembling policemen.

Kid turns, and there's a brief flash of colour as the dark uniform is torn off to reveal the usual white suit and mantle below. And then, as the thief's about to say something, his eyes widen and he throws himself sideways at nearly the same instant as a gun somewhere to Nakamori's left fires.

Nakamori's seen Kid move fast, but he's never seen him move with the amazing speed he does now. Like a cat on hot coals, he shoots across the narrow space, rebounds off the wall and rolls across the floor in a swirl of white. It's an amazing display of acrobatics even for the thief, but there's no time to appreciate that now. By the time he springs to his feet, Nakamori's stepped over to slam Iwada's wrist into the wall without looking. He draws his own gun with his free hand, and aims it at Kid.

Kid stands stalk-still, frozen in the position in which he regained his feet, his hands out on either side and his body half-turned to the wall. His expression is easy and confident as always, but Nakamori thinks his eyes are a hair too wide.

"We have been given authorisation to shoot on sight. This is your one and only warning. Give yourself up." Nakamori makes himself speak in a perfectly flat voice, doesn't let any hint of emotion creep in. Doesn't allow his revolver to so much as waver in his grip. Beside him, Iwada twists under his hand.

"Let me go," the lieutenant hisses, unable to strike his superior regardless of his higher loyalties.

Nakamori cocks his revolver with a slow thumb. "Give yourself up," he repeats, staring straight into Kid's eyes. It's by no means the first time he's taken aim at Kid. But it's the first time he's done so in earnest, knowing that he _should_ shoot, even if he has no intention to. The acidic burning in his heart feels painfully, disturbingly like betrayal.

" _Shoot him_ ," snarls Iwada.

Kid doesn't move. Doesn't bow, doesn't grin, doesn't say anything. He just stares straight at Nakamori, and all the inspector can hope is that he recognises this as what it is: the only way he can pass a message to the thief. _We're gunning for you. In earnest_.

And then the thief closes his eyes and sighs, as if in surrender. Nakamori's heart jolts, and Iwada stiffens under his arm. Kid's shoulders lower as he drops his hands in apparent acceptance of his fate, and then disappears almost instantly as twin jets of smoke surround him.

Several things happen at once. The men gathered behind Nakamori shout and rush forward. The window at the end of the corridor before them breaks loudly, glass falling outwards and letting in a warm breeze. Iwada, protected by the smoke, twists free of Nakamori's arm and charges on with the rest of them. And as they go, someone knocks against the inspector, running in the wrong direction.

"Watch yourself, Inspector," says Kaitou Kid's voice in his ear.

Nakamori pauses for a moment, while all around him men run about like headless chickens in the fading mist and try to fit themselves out the window in pursuit of their quarry. No one notices a sole echo of footsteps in the other direction. The inspector picks up his radio, and opens the channel.

"Attention all officers: Kid has escaped out window 27. Repeat, Kid's escaped out the east-most north-facing window on the second story."

It's the most he can do for the thief, he tells himself. Much, much more than he should, more than enough to lose him his badge. But he can still feel the afterburn of the horror that blazed at the thought of shooting the thief in cold blood – at shooting him at all. At deliberately levelling his weapon at the boy who saved his daughter's life at the risk of his own, twice.

Nakamori realises two things this night. First, thtat he should no longer be on the Kaitou 1412 Task Force. And second, that while the shoot-on-sight edict is in place, he can't leave it.

* * *

"He was there the whole time, sir. Hollowed out the pedestal and waited under it, set everything else off remotely," explains Nakamori, superfluously. His report's on the superintendant's heavy desk, in the good company of other reports on the heist; he can read Iwada's name on the one next to his.

"Didn't you check under the pedestal?" asks Kamioka, fussily.

"Yes, sir. It wasn't hollow at 3pm." _As I said in my report_ , he might have added. Kamioka, possibly sensing his blunder, moves on.

"I've had some reports, Inspector, I won't say who from, that suggest you prevented an officer from doing his duty last night – and that you failed to do your own." He looks gravely over the top of his thick glasses. Nakamori forebears to point out that one of the first skills a junior officer learns is to read upside-down, and therefore that leaving files uncovered on a desk is foolish unless you particularly want them read; extremely foolish in cases where you apparently want them to be secret. Instead, he straightens and answers in a gruff voice.

"Authorization for an action isn't the same as ordering it. We don't fire on unarmed, non-violent men without warning them." _We didn't fire on them at all_ , he wants to say. _Not until you showed up_.

"Those may be your feelings, Inspector," begins Kamioka. Nakamori, in no mood to play the dutiful subordinate, pounces.

"They are beliefs and practices of our organization, sir."

"Well, you'll have to put them aside. We've had enough of Kid. You bring him in, one way or another."

Nakamori frowns. Superiors who take their lines from Hollywood films are never good news, especially in the Force. Still, it would have been almost alright if he had ended the meeting there. Instead, he rambles on over the same ground another three times before Nakamori begins leaning pointedly towards the door.

* * *

"Things were easier back in the good ol' days," slurs Sawara, slumping dangerously close to the grill in the centre of the yakiniku restaurant's table. Yamamoto grabs the back of his collar and tugs him away from the fiery coals. Sawara doesn't appear to notice. In 'the good old days,' Sawara was always a cheerful drunk. But then, back then they weren't encouraged to gun down teenagers. "We were always the good guys then. No conflict, no con-confusion." He finishes his beer, and Oogawa relieves him of the glass before he puts it down in mid air. "Find Kid; catch Kid. Simple. Now who's the good guy? An' who's the bad guy?"

They don't usually go out to eat the day after heists; there's the clean-up and paperwork to get through and by the time that's done most places are closing. But tonight they have more need of a few drinks than usual.

They're seated in a long room with three tables, the entirety of the Squad present save Iwada, who mysteriously failed to receive an invitation. Nakamori sits at the head of the left-most one, with his lieutenant – Iwada will never be that – and Sawara with him. And, for some reason, the three other men whose children were taken two months ago. None of them made a specific effort to sit together, it just happened. They weren't close before the incident, but there's no avoiding the bond that kind of experience forges.

"It'll all work out," says Oogawa quietly, with a reassuring smile. "You know him; always one step ahead of us."

"Can't outrun a bullet," points out Washio morosely, from across the table. He prods a piece of pork belly on the grill, the flames licking at the dripping fat.

"He survived having his monocle shot off," suggests Takarai quietly, sitting far back on his bench, shy as ever. As a driver, he's had nothing but tea and orange juice all night. Or rather, all morning. It's sometime after 1am, as Nakamori's tired muscles are beginning to emphasise.

"Shooting a glider at a hundred metres is a hell of a lot harder than a stationary target at five." Washio drains his whiskey, the ice cubes knocking against the bottom of the glass. Yamamoto nods gloomily; Section One teaches some lessons very quickly.

"No one can make us shoot him," says Oogawa. "Only the Inspector and Iwada outrank us, and we can always get around Iwada."

Nakamori, sitting quietly at the head of the grill watching the flames lick at the few scraps of meat left on it, doesn't look up. He's been in a strange mood tonight – sombre and withdrawn, even after several beers.

"For awhile," agrees Yamamoto flatly. Sawara is beginning to nod off against his shoulder; the younger man lets him. They all know what having a baby in the house is like. It's why they're sitting together at this table. "He's safe for now. And when they decide we're taking too long? Or when Iwada makes too many complaints about lack of compliance?"

"There's nothing we can do. If we quit the Squad in protest, they'll just hire new cops with no scruples. If we stay and refuse to do what we're told, they'll fire us and hire new cops with no scruples. Damned if you do, damned if you don't." Washio picks his now over-cooked piece of pork up off the grill and eats it sullenly.

"We can't do anything more than we're doing," says Takarai nervously. Oogawa gives him a smile.

"Right. We can't. So we keep doing that until someone rescinds this order. Eventually they'll realise it's untenable." Oogawa looks over at Sawara, beginning to snore lightly, and then glances down the table. The rest of the men are looking almost equally exhausted, bent crookedly over their tables or leaning on each other. A few are sleeping against their neighbours. "Should we go, sir? The food and drink's run out."

They ordered two hours of all-you-can-eat-and-drink; both ran out twenty minutes ago. The other two grills are empty; Washio is just finishing off the last of the meat from theirs.

Nakamori nods – even if the men weren't exhausted, Oogawa would have been right to get them out now. Now, before their spiral of frustration and uselessness descends any further. They've already become dangerously candid. Oogawa gets the expenses envelope – always filled before parties, to avoid having to struggle with the early sleepers and the heavy drunks for their cash – and goes off to pay. Takarai passes the word down the line and people begin to rouse their neighbours or at least drag them to their feet. Yamamoto, considerably heftier than Sawara, has no trouble pulling the older man up with him.

Nakamori has over the years built up a considerable amount of experience at shepherding his men while tipsy himself, and gets them out of the building and down onto the kerb outside where they split off into their carpooling groups. Takarai heads off towards his car with Washio beside him, Yamamoto and Sawara straggling along crookedly behind. Nakamori, leaning up against the cool building wall, watches the rest of the men disperse in equally uneven lines. Eventually Oogawa finishes paying and comes out to join him, and they head slowly towards a main street to hail their cabs – the two of them live too far out of anyone else's way to carpool. Their own lines are nearly straight; they are old hands at this.

"You were very quiet tonight, Inspector," says his lieutenant, staring straight ahead.

"You were very optimistic," replies Nakamori, doing the same.

"No point in them worrying about something we can't change, sir." The lieutenant's easy-going, optimistic tone of before is gone, replaced by cool realism.

"There's no way to stop it. Even Arakawa's had to sign off on the order. Whoever's behind this has more power than the head of the damn Metro." Which means politics. A world further above them than an oak tree is above a beetle.

"Yes, sir," agrees Oogawa. He already knows that, of course. Probably realised it before any of the others. He's always been sharp – probably sharper than Nakamori. And he's always been good at directing men from the inside of a group, rather than from above.

"It's about time you had a command of your own, Oogawa. Long past time," he says, gruffly.

"I'm happy here, sir."

Nakamori looks over at him, the man's sharp face carefully blank in the street-light glare. "You may not be, soon. You should get out now, Oogawa. I won't blame you. I'll recommend you for promotion and give you a damn good reference. I've still got a few connections in Section One, or Three. Time you got your career going, and got out of this dead-end division. Especially now." Now that it won't be ending cleanly, whatever happens.

They walk on for several steps in silence, the city at its quietest around them.

"Thank you, sir," says Oogawa quietly, eventually. It isn't the first time Nakamori's recommended him for promotion, of course. But it's the first time he hasn't refused it immediately with a self-conscious grin. "I appreciate it. I –"

"You don't have to decide now, Oogawa. Let me know in a couple of days."

"I can't just abandon you, sir. Not now," protests his lieutenant. Nakamori laughs, a harsh chuckle edged with sandpaper.

"Now's the perfect time. No one'll blame you for leaving before the end – and the gods alone know when that'll be. Two lieutenants in a squad this size is one and a half too many – it'll stand up. Besides, I can handle Iwada on my own."

"You shouldn't have to, sir."

"And you shouldn't have this around your neck." They reach the main road. In the distance, Nakamori spots a yellow car, and raises a hailing hand. It switches lanes and pulls towards them. Nakamori watches it advance, hands in pockets. "Take my advice, Oogawa. This isn't going to end well."

Oogawa gives him a sharp look. "Sir?"

The cab stops. Nakamori, stepping aside for the door to open, turns to look his oldest subordinate straight in the eye. "I am protecting Kid against direct orders with no acceptable justification, lieutenant. Whatever happens, it's not going to be pleasant. Get out now."

He steps into the cab, and closes the door before the man can respond. He's not going to let the best subordinate he's ever had flush his career down the drain over this. One is more than enough.

As the cab pulls away, he doesn't notice the shadow that breaks away from the nearby bus stop and fades off into the pre-dawn darkness.


	3. Chapter 2

The weekend, thank the gods, prevents Oogawa from rushing into anything. The inspector sits at home, listening to Aoko complain about Kaito – the boy's been teasing her again; Nakamori rolls his eyes – smoking, and watching entirely brainless television programming. He doesn't want to think about anything. Not about Kid (annoying), or Iwada (enraging), or the new orders (maddening), or his future career (probably non-existent).

Despite that, there's one thing he can't stop thinking about because not only does he not know the answer, he genuinely can't conceive of it. What the _hell_ has Kid done to piss someone off this badly?

The more Nakamori thinks about it, the more he begins to worry that, given the nature of the orders they've been given, Kid may be closer to the right side of the law on this matter than whoever's pulling strings in the Tokyo Metro. The more he begins to worry that doing right in this may mean going outside the law.

Nakamori's been a policeman his whole life. The law isn't some mystical ideal he worships: he knows that some of the regulations are unfair, and some are downright stupid. He doesn't think policemen are infallible gods: he knows they make mistakes, they commit crimes, and sometimes they hurt people. But twenty years on the Force has branded him all the same. He is a policeman. Enforcing the law, keeping order, and _being on the right side_ is his life. Turning against that would be like asking a diabetic to surrender his insulin.

Even more horrific, though, is the idea that the entire system is corrupt. The idea that, at the top levels, there are shadow men making the Force dance to their tune. The idea that possibly the most dangerous and influential organizations in Japan – the police – are entirely above the law they enforce.

Nakamori can't conceive of working actively against the Force. But he can't conceive of working for a genuinely corrupt one, either.

He lights up another cigarette, ignores Aoko's pursed lips, and changes channels. She's been watching him with mild disapproval all weekend; today, she calls Kaito from the kitchen to tell him her father's driving her mad and ask if she can go over there. She gets over her irritations quickly, at least. He watches her leave, and then turns back to the television to stare at it without watching.

He doesn't know what he's going to do, but either way it will mean betraying someone. The Force, Kid, himself. He doesn't know which is worse, and he dreads the fast-approaching day when he finds out.

* * *

Nakamori arrives late to work on Monday, in no small part because he doesn't want to give Oogawa the chance to get him alone before hours. The men are at their desks either finishing off the last few heist reports or gearing up for the search for the diamond. Kid returns nearly all his stolen goods eventually, but rarely by simply dropping them off to the owners.

Nakamori walks through the busy outside office – the only time it's busier than after a heist is directly before one – and into the hot hush of his private office. The single window has its blinds pulled to keep out the hot morning sun, but the room's already a good 28 degrees and it's only nine. Nakamori hangs his light cotton suit jacket up on the single peg, runs a hand through his hair, and takes a seat behind his desk.

On top of the spread of reports, logistics and schematics that are not _quite_ a genuine mess, is an envelope that wasn't there when he left Friday night. There's no name on the plain outside.

Nakamori picks it up slowly, flips it over in cautious hands and inspects the back. The envelope hasn't been sealed; no chance of saliva. Kid doesn't send envelopes – his letters arrive on their own. He also, in twenty long years, has never announced a second heist only three days after a first.

Inside is a single sheet of paper of the kind that the thief uses. And on it, printed in the same font he employs, is a single line of text. _Midnight, Park Hyatt gallery, top floor. Come alone. Kaitou Kid_. Down in the right-hand corner, as always, is the doodled caricature.

Nakamori stares at the paper for several minutes, just sits at his desk with his joints and muscles stiff and slowly beginning to twinge, and stares at the crisp note in his hands.

This is wrong.

Kid doesn't use envelopes. Kid doesn't write letters that read like bad film clichés. And Kid would never leave a note that could incriminate Nakamori.

Nakamori very carefully folds the letter in on itself, and slips it into his pocket. Goes downstairs to forensics, and spends a few minutes talking to a former colleague from the Old Squad. Comes back upstairs and slowly and sits down to do his paperwork. He fills out a file-full of forms that afternoon, not one of them with his full attention.

He gets a call back around three pm; it's not very long. Nakamori hangs up with a thoughtful look on his face. And then, dialling with slow fingers, calls his house and leaves a message for Aoko – tells her to have dinner with Kaito if she likes, he's got Kid to deal with.

He'll be home late tonight.

* * *

The Park Hyatt is one of many Western chain hotels in Tokyo, towering tall and impressive in Shinjuku, just across from the Tokyo Metro headquarters. An unusual location to choose, certainly.

Nakamori, eager to avoid Oogawa until after tonight's interview, slipped out of the office early in the evening by way of the equipment office, picking up a few things as he went. He stopped for dinner in a back-alley ramen shop that smelled heavily of miso and cigarette smoke, followed by several hours in the reading parlour of one of the many local pachinko parlours. Now, at 11:55, he rides to the top of the skyscraper on the high-levels express elevator. He is alone, as instructed.

The concierge downstairs informed him that the top-floor gallery was currently empty, awaiting a new exhibit. He's therefore not surprised to see no signs in the glass-faced advertisement cases, and no people in the hall leading to the wide false-gold double doors.

He approaches the entrance slowly, footsteps silent on the thick patterned carpet. Reaches to unbutton his jacket, and then thinks the better of it. Standing in front of the doors, he slowly raises a hand and tries the handles. They're unlocked.

Nakamori slips through one side of the double doors into the darkness beyond, letting it close softly behind him on well-oiled hinges.

The gallery is huge, nearly the size of an entire floor of the Tokyo Metro building. Although the electric lights are out, light is still streaming in through the myriad of square skylights above. It's a cloudless night outside and the moon is nearly full, and its light casts a chessboard pattern on the dark marble floor below.

Nakamori's footsteps echo in the cavernous room as he strides forward, slowly-adapting eyes now able to detect the smooth white walls surrounding him. There are no pillars, no tables, no chairs. Nothing.

He is entirely alone in a wide empty space.

Behind him, the door clicks. Nakamori turns sharply, frowning. And stops, dead.

"Not who you were expecting?" asks Iwada, eyes bright over the dull sheen of his pistol. He steps forward, and the door swings closed again on silent hinges.

Nakamori tenses, perfectly aware that the lines of his suit will hide it. "You I was expecting. The gun, I wasn't."

Iwada's eyes narrow slightly and Nakamori grins humourlessly, the corner of his mouth twitching up to reveal a sliver of tooth. "You may think I'm incompetent, but you can't honestly believe I've been chasing Kid for two decades and still can't tell a genuine note from a fake. I assumed you wanted to talk. Incorrectly, apparently."

Iwada stops just short of the centre of the room, some five metres from his superior. "I'm impressed, Inspector. Maybe I should have given you a higher rating."

Nakamori shrugs stiffly. "Maybe you should tell your bosses to get their grubby fingers out of the Tokyo Metro. We all smelled you a mile away."

"You don't need subtlety when you hold all the cards. Thursday night showed us all that there's no point trying to work with you; the party just reinforced it. What did you tell Oogawa? _I'm protecting Kid against direct orders with no personal justification_? You're no master of subtlety yourself, Nakamori. Here's a piece of advice they apparently don't teach you geniuses down in Section Two: don't spill your guts on a public sidewalk."

Nakamori bristles, glaring, but ignores the dig. "Who the hell's paying you, Iwada?"

Iwada's smirk is all smugness and crooked teeth. "Unlike you I keep my secrets. But I will tell you: my friends aren't patient men."

Nakamori, trapped in the centre of a wide room with no cover, frowns and tosses the games into the slipstream of the past. Draws himself up to his full height and lets icy rage freeze his face. "Fine. Let's cut the bullshit. You shoot me, you lose your badge and go away for a long time. Maybe your pals'll get you a shorter sentence, but you'll still be a cop killer. You'll be finished."

Iwada cocks his gun, dark eyes shining in the moonlight. There is a suppressor on the end; the end of this meeting has already been decided. "That's where you're wrong. I won't be shooting at you. I'll be shooting at a wanted criminal. Kaitou Kid, who has a capture or kill out on him. You'll just happen to be in the way. Unfortunate," he adds, as an apparent afterthought.

"Kid's not here," snarls Nakamori, the thin layer of ice over his anger cracking, and gestures to the empty expanse around them. Iwada's lips split into the ghost of a grin.

"I'm surprised you don't know, Inspector. That is the one truly wonderful thing about a phantom thief. _He leaves no traces_."

Nakamori opens his mouth to reply, and the gun barks twice, shattering the silence.

The impact of the bullets is like being hit by a train; Nakamori staggers and falls, landing hard on his back staring up at the grey squares of ceiling and black squares of sky, a reverse chessboard.

He has to move. Has to get up and dodge, has to get Iwada's gun the hell away from him. But it's a fight just to pull in the air he needs to keep the world in focus, all he can do just to keep thinking past the pounding of his pulse in his head. Iwada's steps echo loud in his ears as the man crosses the marble floor, slow as a pendulum swinging. Nakamori, gasping for breath, tries desperately to turn over. And sees, high above him, a flash of white.

Kaitou Kid tumbles from the ceiling like a sycamore seed and lands with easy grace, mantle flowing in a white river behind him. He stands directly between Iwada and Nakamori, blocking the inspector's view of the lieutenant. Nakamori's vision's blurred and his chest is burning; all he can see is the vague outline of Kid's white form, shining in the moonlight. He feels like cursing the thief for a fool, but can't draw in the breath for it. His fingers scratch against the smooth marble as he struggles to keep control, heartbeat pounding furiously in his ears.

"I'm hurt, lieutenant," says Kaitou Kid, coldly. "You set up a meeting with Kaitou Kid, and you didn't invite me?"

Nakamori can't see Iwada past the thief, but he hears the surprise in the bastard's voice. And then the smug smirk. "So you two _are_ in communication. This is even better. 'Inspector dies a hero's death, taking down the moonlit thief.'"

"I'm afraid not," says Kid, walking slowly in a wide circle around Iwada, hands held loosely at his sides. "For one thing, the Inspector didn't invite me here. Lieutenant Oogawa found a rough copy of your letter in the Squad's recycling bin, and called it in over the official radio frequency. They should be here any minute. For another, neither of us is going to die tonight."

Overhead, something explodes without warning in a bright burst of light, blinding Nakamori. The suddenly-white world is filled with sound; running footsteps, a metallic clatter, Iwada cursing. When Nakamori blinks the bright stars from his vision, Kid is standing back where he was before the flash-bomb went off, the rapid rise and fall of shoulders the only indication of what must have been a hard sprint. Iwada is squinting at him, still holding his gun.

Nakamori, finally managing to draw a proper breath past his burning ribs, fights desperately to sit up and pull open his jacket.

"It ends now," says Iwada and, just as Nakamori finally fumbles his coat open to grasp for his revolver, pulls the trigger. The inspector's fingers fall away from his weapon in shock before he ever feels the moulded wood of its grip.

At the art gallery, Nakamori saw Kid move with amazing speed. But tonight, he moves so fast he nearly vanishes. His arm snaps up as he streaks leftwards, white against black like lightning splitting the sky, just as the gunshot goes off. And then he comes to a halt, hand held at heart-height.

"Why lieutenant," says Kid, in an imitation of Iwada's previous tone. "I'm surprised you don't know. I'm not just a phantom thief."

He opens his white-gloved hand, and turns it over. A tiny rounded piece of metal drops from his hand and hits the floor with a silvery tinkle, bounces and rolls to a stop near Nakamori's hand. The bullet.

"The best magicians catch bullets," he announces, bright and charming as always. But beneath the velvety showmanship is cold hard steel. This isn't a boast. It's a warning. Hurt me, hurt others, and you cannot imagine what I can bring down on you. Nakamori shivers painfully.

As Iwada stares and the thief stands frozen in a tableau with his hand out to engrave this moment in their memories, the gallery doors slam open.

An instant later the overhead lights turn on with an electric crackle, and a team of Squad men lead by Oogawa storms in, guns in hand. To find Iwada, standing frozen in shock in the centre of the room, literally holding a smoking gun. Kid's stage-managing is keen enough to end careers in one sharp shock. The thief may not be violent, but he's not merciful either. Not to those who shoot first.

Nakamori struggles to his feet, Iwada turning to stare at him. If his eyes get any wider, they'll probably fall out. Nakamori grins without humour, and lets his jacket fall open to reveal the Kevlar below, borrowed earlier in the day from the equipment office. "Arrest the bastard," he growls, and watches with supreme satisfaction as Oogawa wrenches the gun from Iwada's limp hand and Yamamoto cuffs him with more strength than strictly necessary.

"On what charge?" demands Iwada, recovering. "I was acting under orders – to bring Kaitou Kid in, by violence if necessary. You got in the way of my shot – it was an accident!" In the better light, Nakamori can see Iwada's bulldog cheeks quivering with his rage, his face reddening.

There's a quiet click to his left. Nakamori glances over to see Kid holding up a recorder. "Really," he drawls, and presses a button. Iwada's voice blares out from the tinny speakers: _This is even better. 'Inspector dies a hero's death, taking down the moonlit thief_.'

"I think premeditated murder will do," says Nakamori, wincing as he slips off the Kevlar vest. The two bullets buried in it will be excellent evidence at trial. So, for that matter, will his bruises.

"You're crooked as a corkscrew, you son of a bitch," spits Iwada, now a deep shade of puce.

"I wouldn't throw stones," replies the inspector, and nods to Washio and Yamamoto, who drag the disgraced lieutenant out. The other men, save for Oogawa, give Nakamori a wary look and then slowly file out of the room.

Kid has stepped back away from the action, stands leaning against a wall with his hat bent low to shadow his eyes while his lips are set in their usual faint grin. He turns as Nakamori looks towards him, and tosses something. The inspector drops his vest to reach for it, catches it after a tricky fumble. It's a small white tape, and along with the gun, the vest and his own statement, it's all the evidence he needs to put Iwada away.

"Kid," he begins, not knowing how to finish. _Thanks for saving me from my own lieutenant_ is not high on the list of things he ever thought he would have to say.

"You'll need this as well," says the thief, saving him the trouble. Produces from his jacket a suppressed pistol the same make as Iwada's and holds it with a steady grip that nevertheless hints of controlled caution. Kid doesn't like guns. Nakamori stares at it, then at the bullet lying on the ground. The perfectly undamaged bullet. He looks back up and sees Kid grinning crookedly. "They don't call them magic _tricks_ for nothing, Inspector."

"You replaced his gun in the flash," deduces Nakamori. "But why bother giving him one –" Nakamori cuts himself off before finishing. He now has six men who can be called to the stand to attest that they found Iwada pointing a gun at the thief, and Nakamori behind him. Kid, as usual, is two steps ahead of him. "But how the hell did you know? Don't tell me Oogawa actually found a draft notice in the bin. Iwada's not that stupid." He glances to Oogawa, who looks at him in confusion; Nakamori's not entirely sure what to make of that.

Kid shrugs, still smiling. "They may be tricks, Inspector, but that doesn't mean I reveal them. That's your job." He crosses the room in even steps, and looks up. Nakamori doesn't see anything, but apparently Kid does; he reaches out and catches hold of something too fine to see. "Good night, Inspector. I'm afraid you may need to be more cautious of your colleagues in the future." He raises one arm ceiling-ward, tips his hat with the other.

"Kid!" shouts Nakamori, and the thief freezes. Drops his hand away and looks back with unreadable eyes. "Who are they? Why are they after you? Tell me, I –"

The words _I can help_ die on his lips. He can't help. Kid isn't a friend. Isn't a colleague. Isn't even a civilian, deserving of his aid. Kid is a criminal. Not just _a_ criminal but his specific quarry, and it is Nakamori's sole and entire duty to apprehend him. If this were anyone else, Nakamori could offer them his help, his protection.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn't have to.

Sawara was right. In the good old days, it was so simple. So black and white. They were right, Kid was wrong. And now, suddenly, it's all pure, monochrome grey.

With a feeling like something fundamental breaking, like the pillars of his world not only trembling but splintering, Nakamori realises that he honestly doesn't know anymore why he shouldn't help the thief. Honestly doesn't know which side of the law is still equal to right. Kid may be a renegade, but he follows his own unique principles of justice unwaveringly. That's a hell of a lot more than Nakamori can say of the Force. A hell of a lot more than he can, after these past few months, say of himself.

Gods help him, Iwada was right. He isn't simply feeling sympathy for a single person, isn't simply shying away from hurting a man he knows. That's bad, but it's understandable. Even cops have compassion – he's always believed that to be not a flaw but an asset. But believing in a criminal's integrity over that of the Force? He's more than playing with fire, he's covering himself in gasoline. Arakawa, who tried to warn him off this path more than once, surely saw it coming. Possibly even Kid himself did; _Watch yourself, Inspector_. Nakamori, everything he believed to be fundamentally true suddenly collapsing around him and leaving him with nothing to hold onto, feels the blood drain from his face with a lurch in his chest.

Kid gives him a strange look from beneath the shadowy brim of his hat. "Their identity is not a secret I would divulge, Inspector, even if I could. And it's not one you want to know. I can only repeat what I said before: watch your back." Kid presses a switch on a tiny control, and is pulled up to the ceiling in a smooth ascent. He lands easily in the narrow cut-out of a skylight, and disappears out onto the roof.

Nakamori groans, and drops his head into his hands, tottering on suddenly unstable legs as the adrenaline drains away and leaves him cold. A hand on his elbow catches him, and he snaps up to see Oogawa standing beside him. He had entirely forgotten his lieutenant – his _real_ lieutenant. He forces himself to pull it together, concentrate on the here and now.

"Are you alright, Inspector?"

He wipes away the sweat that he's only just noticed beading along his hairline, and for the first time since May misses the heat of summer. "Fine," he answers, shaking his head to try to clear it. His chest still aches as he breathes, and he knows from experience that putting on shirts and jackets will be painful for a few days. He hangs his jacket over his arm instead, holding the bullet-proof vest with his other hand. Oogawa holds both Iwada's real and fake pistol. "This is going to mean a lot of paperwork," he continues, glumly. And then, the idea of paperwork spurring a new line of thought, he turns a suspicious look on Oogawa. "How the hell did you know to come here, anyway?"

"Kid told the truth, sir. We did find a draft in Iwada's can," he says, looking more conspiratorial than cagey. Nakamori's eyes narrow.

"But?"

"But only after I got a phone call telling me to get my ass back to the office and look for it. From you," finishes Oogawa.

Nakamori feels like dropping his head into his hands. He doesn't, but it's a near thing. "Did you believe it?"

"I believed the message, sir. But not the voice."

He perks up. "He made a mistake?"

"No, sir. You've been avoiding me all day. No reason to call me when Sawara or Yamamoto would have done as well."

Nakamori freezes, irritation passing quick as a summer hailstorm into embarrassment. "Oogawa –"

Oogawa cuts him off in a firm tone before he can even begin. "I made my choice, sir: I'm staying. If I leave know, the gods only know who they'll replace me with. Besides, after hanging on through all those slow years, how could I leave now that things have gotten serious?" He smiles self-deprecatingly, and Nakamori wonders who it is Oogawa really thinks needs him. His boss, his Squad, or his target. Perhaps ignorance is better; he knows his own answer now, and can hardly face it.

"You're a good man, Oogawa. I won't forget it." Nakamori drops a heavy hand on his shoulder, clasps it. "My offer's open, if you change your mind." For his career – for his own good – Nakamori wishes the man would leave. But gods, he's glad he's staying. A hostile situation's no time to lose his strongest support. Losing Oogawa would be like having his legs cut out from under him; it makes him weak to think of it.

The man nods once, eyes meeting his superior's firmly, and then he turns and leaves. Nakamori, standing in the cool room, glances up once again at the skylight. It's closed now, with no silhouette visible against the sky. If Kid hangs around after his theatrical departures, no one ever sees him.

Nakamori walks over to the door and switches off the light; once again, the floor is a black and white chessboard, and he's nothing but a pawn. A pawn with no idea whose is the hand that moves him. Well, pawns can damn well become kings, and mere inspectors can bite a hell of a lot harder than people think. He grits his teeth, narrows his eyes, and leaves.

Outside in the hallway, Oogawa's waiting for him. Nakamori strides right on past him, and the man hurries to catch up. "We're going to find out who's behind this," he says, staring straight ahead. "It's all about Kid, after all, that makes it our mandate. We're going to find out who the hell's trying to shut him down, and drag them out into the light."

"Yes, sir."

And that, Nakamori knows now, stabbing savagely at the elevator button, will be the last thing he does as a member of the Squad.


	4. Epilogue

_Tokyo Shimbun, June 10_ _th_ _, XXXX, A4_

_KAITOU KID TASK FORCE IN FLUX_

_Temporary orders issued to the Kaitou 1412 Task Force have been rescinded, says Section Two Superintendant Kamioka Masaru._

" _The Kaitou 1412 Task Force has been working for 20 years with the same levels of clearance. We thought raising that clearance might result in higher gains. However, they failed to bring the results we were hoping for, and we have rescinded them for the immediate future."_

_The Kaitou 1412 Task Force, colloquially known as the Kaitou Kid Task Force, is lead by Inspector Nakamori and is charged with apprehending the internationally-wanted thief Kaitou Kid. Although the Task Force has been very successful in recovering items stolen by Kaitou Kid, they have to date had little success in capturing the thief himself._

" _The Kaitou 1412 Task Force will continue to do its utmost to capture Kaitou Kid," said Inspector Nakamori Ginzo when contacted for comment. "We will not in any way be hampered by the withdrawal of the new orders."_

_What the exact nature of those orders was has yet to be determined._

_The Kaitou 1412 Task Force has also recently been plagued with the loss of one of its lieutenants, Iwada Touryu, who was removed from duty pending court proceedings for the unlawful discharge of a weapon last week. Mr. Iwada will attend a hearing on –_

The newspaper is crumpled violently and thrown into a pristine wastepaper basket where it lies, slowly uncrumpling. On the desk above, a phone is removed from its cradle.

"It's me. Yes. Yes. No, that's not acceptable. No. I want Iwada dealt with; we can't have him giving testimony. Very well. And about Kid… Yes. I've had enough of these games. The Tokyo Metro is useless; they're not worth the price I paid for them. No more excuses. Do it yourself."

The phone is replaced with a click.

In the basket, the newspaper slowly unfolds. Above, a quiet voice begins to hum a broken tune. _Karasu naze nakuno? Karasu wa yama ni kawaii nanatsu no ko ga aru kara yo…_


End file.
